


the devil makes work

by llassah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Cursed Stiles, Despair, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Public Masturbation, jizz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It takes Stiles four days to notice something’s wrong. Well it’s not like jerking off three times a day is unusual behavior. The third day, he has his usual good morning session, comes straight home from Lacrosse and jerks off without even taking off his jeans because it’s laundry day tomorrow and it’s not like he’s got standards. And everyone jerks off last thing at night; it’s like a glass of warm milk for your dick.</em><br/>Stiles has been hit by a jerking off curse. He might not make it through May unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the devil makes work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eeames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeames/gifts).



It takes Stiles four days to notice something’s wrong. Well it’s not like jerking off three times a day is unusual behavior. The third day, he has his usual good morning session, comes straight home from Lacrosse and jerks off without even taking off his jeans because it’s laundry day tomorrow and it’s not like he’s got standards. And everyone jerks off last thing at night; it’s like a glass of warm milk for your dick.

No, alarm bells start on the fourth day. He has his morning scrub and rub in the shower, fine, but by noon he’s itchy-fingered, can’t seem to will his boner down and Scott and Isaac keep giving him weird looks because they’re in the middle of learning about the Black Death. The _Black Death._

He’s leaking, can feel his dick dampening the front of his boxers, presses the heel of his hand to his lower stomach to relieve the pressure as the teacher describes crusting sores, mass graves and the changes to the European labor economy. His self-control is on a knife edge; it’s all he can do not to whip out his dick and rub one out right there, it would feel so—

“Excuse me,” he grits out, holding his backpack in front of his stubbornly full chub, half staggers to the nearest bathroom. He has his hand down his pants before he’s even in a cubicle, strips his hand up and down his leaking dick. It feels _so good_ , such a relief to get his hand on his dick, to get a break from that urgent need. It doesn’t take long before he’s practically dripping precome, balls drawn up tight. He’s got his other hand on the wall for support, mouth open as his hips jerk and he pants, mindlessly fucking into his fist. When he comes, his spunk streaks up the door, dribbles onto his sneakers. He even gets some in his hair. 

He stays in the cubicle until lunch, cleans the door as best he can, combs the spunk out of his hair. His laces are crusted over with jizz. Fuck his _life._

When Scott asks at lunch, he can’t explain. Wonders briefly if it’s the Nogitsune again. If he’s getting off on chaos, despair, but when he was jerking off he wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. It was more physical than mental, which was kind of scarier. “But seriously, I couldn’t stop. I was just—I _had_ to. It was mindless. And I have no _idea_ how to research jerking off under the influence of external forces without launching myself into another pornado.”

Scott winces. He was there for June 2010. “But Stiles, your heart rate was through the roof—we should go to Deaton, ask—”

“—no. No no no. No talking about my dick with Deaton. I have _lines_ ; I’ll do research.”

“In between jerking off and jerking off?” Isaac asks, sneers when Stiles glares. 

When he gets home, he jerks off, has his normal late night beat off, goes to sleep with his hand on his dick—

—wakes up coming, nuts all over his hand, his wrist, sobbing with how good it feels. He now has two vintages of spunk on his hand, one flaking and crusty, the other slick, warm, dribbling through his fingers giving them a pearly sheen. He jerks off in the shower too, watches his come slide down the drain in streaks, still bleary-eyed. 

He gets the urge to jerk it at lunch, goes straight away, heads to his favorite cubicle and jerks off with both hands, one gripping the base and just moving a little, up and down, the other playing with the crown of his dick, just tickling under the head, dipping slightly into the slit. And yeah, it’s the technique he uses when he wants to treat himself, but fuck it. He’s been cursed.

He jerks off before he goes over to the loft, uses lotion this time, fucks his fist slow and easy. Makes sure he showers thoroughly before he goes over, feels mellow, relaxed. He’s starting to think this is just some kind of two day aberration in spite of the slight soreness of his wrist, the little darting looks Scott keeps sending him. He slumps down in the ratty armchair Derek got from fuck knows where, listens to Scott trying to convince Derek about the merits of Fat Joe’s pizza over Fiorello’s, sketches out the argument for his extra credit economics paper in his head. He’s wondering about maybe getting some food when it hits and he’s hard so quickly his fingers feel like they’ve gone numb and Derek, Scott and Isaac are all staring at him as he stays still, makes himself stay still because this isn’t happening. Not here. He grips the arms of the chair, stares straight ahead.

“Dude, maybe you should—”

“No.” he says, doesn’t look at Scott. He can do this. He doesn’t have to jerk off, not if he doesn’t want to. His fingers are twitching. He feels—it’s like he’s horny, but without the images or words. It’s all animal feeling, and it’s running through his veins, his bones, thudding rabbit-fast through his heart. He’s burning up, drying out but his dick’s leaking, balls drawn up. He bites his lip, hard. Doesn’t move.

“Stiles, your heart—it’s through the roof, you need to do something—”

“No! I’ve got this, I can—I can fight this. I have to—just a few more minutes, it’ll be gone by—fuck. It’ll be gone by then,” he says. Scott crouches down in front of him, waits until Stiles looks down, meets his eyes.

“Stiles, your heart—it’s gone uneven, too fast. You have to, uh. You have to—”

“I’m fine, I—”

“Bathroom’s upstairs. Fix this, then we can talk about the incubus you’ve gotten the attention of,” Derek says, eyes hooded, arms folded, jerks his head towards the staircase when Stiles doesn’t move. At some point he’ll feel humiliated by this, but he staggers up the stairs, hand sweaty on the rail, barely has his jeans down before he’s jerking off, sweat and precome easing the way as he aims his dick at the toilet. His knees give out when he comes and he ends up lying on his side, dick softening in his hand as it leaks come onto the bathroom tiles. He closes his eyes, presses his flushed cheek to the cool floor as the abject humiliation creeps in. 

He loses track of time as he lays there, tremors running through him. Might even fall asleep. He could live here. Just live in Derek’s bathroom, jerking off whenever the overwhelming need took him. Derek could slide thin crust pizzas under the door at mealtimes and he has access to water here. They could get his pillow and comforter and then he could sleep in the corner. Then he’d never have to leave. He could stay here until he’s jerked himself to death, just a desiccated corpse covered in spunk. On his headstone, they can carve the words _‘he died doing what he loved’_ and that Leviticus verse about spilling seed or whatever. 

If he’s right about this, on May 31st, he’s going to be visiting Madam Palm and her five accommodating daughters thirty one times. Beacon Hills is going to become a repository for his little swimmers, he’s going to get carpal tunnel syndrome, he’ll get _dick calluses_ , his balls will be so shrivelled they’ll be like the most heart-breaking raisins—

“Stiles, you need to calm down,” Scott says, crouching down next to him.

“Thirty one times,” he croaks out, opens his eyes. His hand’s still wrapped around his dick. “I’ll die.”

He tucks his dick back in his boxers, shimmies his jeans up in a dying fish kind of thrash. 

“I’ll die, and I don’t think Lydia loves me enough to go all evil banshee on me and invoke the heroic death getout clause. I’ll just be a shrivelled—”

“Stiles, it’s okay. You’ll be okay. Thirty one?” he asks, helps him sit up. 

“May the first, jerked off once, twice the next day, three times the third—you get the picture. The most I’ve managed in a day is eight that Sunday—remember?”

Scott frowns, sits down next to him, shuffles them both so they’re leaning against the wall. “You came in the next day looking like you’d just gotten over the flu. Can we please go to Deaton now?”

Stiles thunks his head down on Scott’s shoulder. “Let me wash the jizz off first,” he says into the fabric of Scott’s hoodie. Scott pats his head. 

“The worst thing is I’ve heard you say that before, bro,” he says. 

When they shuffle out of the bathroom and down the stairs, Derek is sitting on the couch, reading a thick battered hardback book with no spine, legs stretched out along the cushions. Derek marks the page he’s on with his index finger, closes the book and looks at Stiles. He can’t quite get a read on Derek’s expression, but the tips of his ears are slightly pinked. “I don’t know much about, uh, sex demons. But—you should stock up on lube. Or lotion. Whatever you use. And think about toys.”

Scott frowns, then, like a beautiful sun dawning across the plains his expression clears. Stiles is too stuck on the fact that Derek blushes when he talks about Stiles marshalling his forces, ministering to himself in his hour of need, getting a one way ticket from boner town. It’s fucking _charming,_ especially considering that for the next month? It’s going to be pretty much his only occupation. “Thanks, big guy,” he says, pats Derek on the knee on the way out of the loft. When he turns to wave at the doors, Derek’s staring at his knee like it’s personally offended him. 

“I think he’s getting weirder,” he tells Scott as they get into the jeep. Scott shrugs.  
“He’s had a lot on his mind.”

Which is a fair point. They had to go to Mexico to buy him back from a wolfsbane and deer antler dealer oblique stroke Elvis impersonator. It was a pretty wild ride.

*

“Well, it could be an incubus, could be a succubus, could be a witch or you could have disturbed a cursed artefact. It’s hard to tell at this stage. It’ll probably have run its course by the end of the month.”

“And how do I cure it? Do I need the blood of a unicorn? The spleen of a disappointed otter?”

Deaton levels him with a deeply disappointed look, but Stiles can’t quite bring himself to care. He’s the poor fucker who’s been condemned to choking the chicken with exponentially increasing frequency for a solid month. “I’ll look into it, Stiles. But lay off the otters. I don’t think they’ll help.”

*

Stiles buys a half liter pump action bottle of ‘grip ‘n’ slip personal moisturizer’, a prostate massager and a vibrating dildo, pays extra for 24 hour delivery and thanks the universe that it’s Saturday tomorrow. Then, because he wants to have at least some choices, he lines up his favorite threesome porn, puts his headphones on, puts the lotion and tissues in easy reach of his desk, gets naked and leans back in his desk chair. The porno’s one of the ones that gets tagged ‘female friendly’, which seems to mean more pubic hair, better lighting and a few more shots of flying birds and leaves rustling. 

It’s a slow start, so he takes his time, runs his hands over his arms, brushes his fingers gently down his sides, not quite tickling. He runs his hands down his legs, presses his thumbs into his insteps, just aimless touches. It feels good to be doing this because he wants to. He licks his fingers, circles his nipples as the two men walk down a sidewalk to a hotel, kiss in the elevator, pinches them lightly and tugs them as they swipe their roomkey. There’s a woman sat in a chair by the window, wearing a suit, tie and all. Her legs are spread wide and she watches the men kissing, leans back with her arms draped over the armrests, a glass in one hand. 

Stiles holds off on touching his dick for as long as he can, waits until he’s humping the air a little, dick bobbing, flush against his stomach. He waits until the woman’s riding one of the men, pinning him down to the bed, her hair hanging down, brushing his chest as she fucks herself with his dick. He looks worshipful, mouth open as he gazes up at her, and she grins down at him, the light catching some of the freckles on her nose, the laugh lines around her eyes. The other man is watching, idly stroking his dick. When he can’t wait any longer, Stiles slicks up his hand, swipes his thumb across the head of his dick a few times, grips it loosely. He plays with his balls with his other hand, tugs on them lightly, rubs his fingers along his taint, shifts his hips so he can press his fingertip into his ass, play with his hole. 

Onscreen, the woman’s on her back, legs splayed crookedly as the men take it in turns to eat her out. Her cunt’s beautiful, shiny-pink and glistening, and she grinds up into their mouths, grips their heads and rubs up against them. Their eyes are hazy, lips slick with her juices. They kiss each other as she watches, take it in turn to kiss her, touch each other, laugh when it tickles, moan when it feels good. Stiles fucks up into his fist as they lie back down together in a confusion of limbs and all he can see is skin touching skin, closeups on hands and hips, on mouths. When he can feel himself coming he closes his eyes, loses himself in the moans coming through his headphones, nuts without knowing what’s on the screen, shivery pleasure running through him. He closes the browser, walks naked to the bathroom, cleans himself off, brushes his teeth. Goes to sleep knowing he’ll be hard again in the morning.

*

Six times is fine when you don’t have to get to class. He alternates jerking off with humping his pillow to save his wrist, is able to sit through lunch and dinner with his dad without having to rush to the bathroom. He texts Scott at seven once he’s had his sixth jerkoff and he comes over with snacks and their econ project and it feels like he’s trying to grab this last bit of normality before the hell of next week, feels anxious and jumpy because school’s going to be _excruciating_ , and—

“Dude. _Stiles_ ,” Scott says, frowning. “You just got really—are you okay?”

“Eight times Monday, nine on Tuesday, ten on Wednesday—” 

Scott’s eyes go wide. “That’s not gonna work,” he says at last. Stiles lets out a breath, laughs shakily. “You’ll have to skip. We can tell your dad, my mom can get you a doctor’s note, we can—”

“No! It’s bad enough that I have to—I can’t tell my dad about this,” Stiles says. “It’s so—it’s _humiliating._ ”

“More than coming in your pants in math class?” 

Stiles lets his head thud on the desk. “I hate everything. I especially hate boners.”

*

They tell his dad on Sunday morning, and by Sunday evening Melissa’s at the door with a bemused expression and a note. She puts the back of her hand on Stiles’s forehead, pinches the skin on the back of his hand. “Keep hydrated, keep eating,” she says. “Let me know if you get too tired.”

He catches her exchanging a look with his dad and it feels like he’s been catapulted back to when he couldn’t sleep, to that worry they shared. “I’ll be fine,” he says. There’s a little break in his voice, but she doesn’t say anything.

He skips school on Monday. Jerks off, takes his meds, drinks a glass of water, does some more research into European pack structures, gets diverted onto the French resistance and some possible hunter links in the north of France. It’s weird getting pulled out of focus so suddenly, to surface with such a brutal intensity. He jerks off with statistics running through his head, gets straight back to the computer with jizz drying on his hands.

His delivery arrives at 4:15, just after he’s jerked off. He signs for the package with his shirt buttoned wrong. The delivery driver doesn’t stop looking at his mouth. When he looks in the mirror he wants to laugh. He looks like he’s been fucked six ways from Sunday, like he’s spent the past five hours getting plowed. He throws the parcel on his bed, looks at his phone. He has three texts from Scott, two from Lydia, one from Allison. All of them are asking how he is without directly referring to the reason for his absence. It’s a jizz colored elephant in the room, but he’s grateful to them for pretending that it isn’t dick related, that it’s more of an illness. 

He skypes Scott, beats him impressively at a game where you have to drive a taxi round Berlin. Scott keeps getting stuck in fountains. It’s fantastic. He has to stop when he gets a sudden boner on the turning to Friedrichstrasse, pauses the game and rushes to the bathroom. Scott’s paused too, doesn’t mention the jerkoff break and they keep playing until his dad gets home. His dad’s cooked steaks and spinach, mashed potato, and he’s so hungry he almost dives straight in, remembers at the last moment to ask how his day was. His dad grins, shakes his head. “It was fine, kid. Miss Jenkins lost her cat again. It turned up at the station, just like last time.”

Stiles swallows his mouthful of mash, takes a gulp of milk. “I still think it’s trying to turn itself in. Get it in the interrogation room, it’ll sing like a canary.”

“You’d need cat sized cuffs. How would it sign the confession?”

“Pawprint. Put it on the stamp pad.”

His dad’s working the late shift too, as Deputy Finchcombe’s kid has chicken pox. They have a few scoops of ice cream for dessert then his dad’s out again, shrugs his jacket back on and ruffles Stiles’s hair, locks the door after him and tells him to be good.

The Sheriff doesn’t know about the sex toys. 

The lube is in a bright blue bottle with comic sans writing on the side. It’s hypoallergenic lube, has this amazing slick consistency. The dildo is sparkly pink, and the prostate massager looks like an alien medical implement. He jerks off with the lube, doesn’t want to try the other toys yet. It’s slick without that tackiness some lubes get. He jerks off to thoughts of faceless men, to being pushed down onto his knees, told he was a pretty slut, that he was begging for it. He hitches up his hips, slides a finger into his ass, the lube making it easy, a slow push in. He doesn’t find his prostate but the sensation’s enough, just the idea of it, of getting fucked. He comes with two fingers in his ass, spunk coming up as high as his chin. He wipes his chest down with a washcloth, puts the lube on the nightstand in plain view. It’s not as if he has anything to hide any more.

Tuesday, he tries the dildo. Slicks it up, sinks down onto it when he’s open, his dick leaking, right up against his stomach. His erection flags a little when he takes it too fast, but once he’s sunk down onto it, he doesn’t even turn on the vibrations, rocks his hips forwards and back as he plays with the head of his dick, pinches his nipples with his free hand, comes like a rocket when he finds his prostate, like it’s been punched out of him, curls down over himself as he shakes and comes. He feels wrung out, a little sore when he pulls the dildo out. It’s waterproof, so he takes it into the shower, cleans it up as he washes the spunk off his chest. He feels weirdly open. It feels good, like pressing down on a sore tooth. Plus, it gives his wrist a break.

When he gets back from his shower, Derek’s sitting in his desk chair, reading. He’s still holding the dildo, doesn’t know whether to throw it at him or hide it, decides to style it out. “H-hey. How’re you doing? Good book?” he asks, puts the dildo in his sock drawer and tightens the towel around his waist.

“Thoreau would make a terrible werewolf,” Derek says, goes back to reading, so Stiles pulls on a clean pair of pajama pants, gets his favorite worn-out tee from the back of the drawer. “How’ve you been? With the curse?” he asks. Stiles shrugs.

“I think the worst thing right now is knowing it’s gonna get worse,” he says. “Anticipating it. But, uh, I get breaks between boners right now which is good, because in a few weeks it’ll be once an hour day and night, and I don’t—well, I guess people have survived worse, right? I just have to get through a month.”

Derek closes his book, looks at him, head tilted a little. “C’mon, we’re gonna go for a walk. You need fresh air. Put on your jacket,” he says, and there’s no reason not to, so he does, toes on his sneakers, leaves a note for his dad and walks in step with Derek, hands in the pockets of his pajama pants. They don’t talk much, but Stiles still feels better, his head a little quieter. After the Nogitsune, after Mexico, they went on walks together at ass o’clock in the morning. Scott was there for both of them in the day and in the night, when the shadows seemed that bit too long and the guilt too much to even think about, they had each other. 

They walk around the block, and Derek looks at him again, scents the air. “You should get back,” he says. “You’ve got a couple of minutes.”

“You can smell—you can tell?”

“Werewolf,” he says, melts back into the shadows as Stiles tries to work out how creepy that is.

*  
He tries out the prostate massager on the third orgasm of the eleventh day. He’s already fingered himself open last time he jerked off, is still a little sticky with lube. He puts a towel on the bed, slicks himself up some more. He has to keep giving his dick occasional strokes to take the edge off, pushes the prostate massager in slowly with one hand, breathing out and bearing down at the same time. It fits in nicely, the external part pressing against his taint, the internal part sparking off against his prostate when he moves his hips a certain way. He circles his hips, humps up against the air, chases the sensation. He keeps jerking off, dick leaking so much precome it drips down his balls to mix with the generous amount of lube he’s used.

It doesn’t take much to come the first time. Doesn’t take much for him to get hard again as the aftershocks make him shudder, make him clench around the massager. He comes again, his spunk trickling off his stomach and onto his towel. By the third time he feels wrung out, his cock only producing the smallest trickle, still mostly soft. Getting the massager out is hard, his fingers too slippery to get a good grip on it. When it’s out, he puts it on the towel next to him, slips into a come-induced stupor. It’s half an hour before he feels like he has the energy to move. He has to change his sheets. He’s had to change his sheets a lot these past few days.

*

The days blur together. Scott comes over when he can, his dad cooks him iron rich, protein rich meals and leaves him milkshakes in the morning, glasses of orange juice. He goes on walks with Derek, feels stretched thin and unreal next to his solid bulk, but oddly grounded all the same. He wakes up, jerks off, researches, reads the class notes Scott sends over, does the assigned work, jerks off. He’s started alternating hands, switching grips, humping pillows, fucking himself with his fingers, the dildo, comes until he’s coming dry, dick limp and painful. He marks off each day with a cross. It’s the sixteenth day and he’s starting to lose it. The sixteenth day and he can’t sleep for more than a few hours.

The third time he wakes up, hand on his dick, the window's sliding up. Derek looks wrecked, hair up in tufts, trembling slightly. "Sorry—" he says, "I just—sorry. Had a bad dream. You know how it is. I'll just, uh," and Stiles is so tired, so completely done with not having any human contact, done with this masturbatory exile that he just says "Stay. We can talk after. Just--ignore the next few minutes, okay?"

Derek nods, turns around, hands in his pockets. The window is still open but Stiles knows how the room must smell, how the smell of his spunk probably permeates everything. Spunk and sweat, persistent arousal. Derek must be able to hear everything. He can probably _taste_ it as Stiles smears lube on his right hand, jerks off with quick, efficient movements with his eyes tightly shut. He can hear himself breathing, each shivery inhale and exhale loud in his ears. He can hear Derek, too. He nearly groans at how Derek knows now, knows what he sounds like, knows what he likes, comes to the idea of Derek watching next time, nuts up at the thought, spends all over his hand, his sheets. 

When he's done, he grabs a couple of tissues, wipes himself off, uses the hand sanitizer to get rid of some of the smell. His sheets will just have to stay like that. When he can speak, he says "I'm done now, buddy," hates how shaky his voice sounds. When Derek turns around his eyes are still wide. He's trembling still. Stiles turns on the sidelight. "Sit down, c'mon. What do you need?"

"Your hands. Show me," Derek says, sits at the end of the bed. Stiles's brain shuts down for a few moments. "Your fingers. I need to count—" he says, huffs when Stiles doesn't move, grabs his wrist, the one he just jerked off with, holds it tightly and stares at it. "Five," he says at last, but he doesn't let go. Stiles waits him out. His wrist burns. He can see the sheen of his spunk on his hand. "It isn't safe there," Derek says, and Stiles pats the bed.

"Stay. Stay here. Uh, if you can ignore the jerking it and the smell of spunk, “he says. “Just...I'm probably going to be doing this, uh, a lot."  
Derek looks up at him. His thumb is stroking the inside of Stiles's wrist, and if Stiles hadn't blown his wad minutes ago, he'd be getting hard just at that small point of contact. "Thank you," he says quietly, lets go of Stiles's wrist, toes off his boots and climbs into bed. "You look tired," he says when Stiles lies back. He's on his side, head pillowed on his outstretched arm. "This—you look like before," he says. Stiles nods. Not much he can say really. He turns out the light, closes his eyes. Listens to the steady rhythm of Derek's breathing, dragging him down.

There's fire under his skin when he wakes up. He kicks off the covers, is gasping for air, gets it into his lungs as he arches off the bed, balls already drawn tight. It feels like an emergency. Feels ugly. Derek is watching him, eyes wide, lips parted. He doesn't touch. Stiles is still making eye contact as he humps up against the heel of his hand, feet clawing in the rucked up sheets, hips jerking as he presses down. He closes his eyes as he's about to come, back arched, breath whistling through his throat in a sob. He nuts in his pyjama pants, slumps back onto the bed as the spunk seeps through the fabric. 

Derek brushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead as aftershocks jolt through him. He leans into the touch, doesn't open his eyes. Derek's hand is warm and dry, soothing.

"Hate this," he mumbles. "Never jerking myself off again. Gonna-- gonna pay someone to do it."

Derek huffs out a laugh. "I don't think that counts as jerking yourself off," he says. Stiles shrugs.

"Semantics. What did you dream about?" he asks. Derek's hand stills for a few seconds. 

"Her. Again. It's always her."

Stiles reaches up, wraps his hand around Derek’s wrist. “It’s okay,” he says. Allison killed Kate. Shot her with a wolfsbane arrow, straight through the heart. On bad nights, Derek doesn’t believe it. He says “sleep now,” rolls over so he’s facing Derek, laces their fingers together. There’s a wet patch on his pajama pants, but he’s warm and sleepy. Derek can deal with smelling his spunk for a few hours. They breathe quietly together, drift off.

*

Stiles is alone when he wakes up, but there’s a plate of sandwiches on the nightstand and a scrap of paper with a face drawn on it. The face has fangs, exaggerated eyebrows. He pins it to his noticeboard, has no idea why but it makes him feel better. He scarfs one sandwich down, jerks off, putters about with his history paper, jerks off again. Showers, jerks off. Has a half hour phone conversation with Scott during lunch, talk about absolutely nothing for most of that time. He uses the prostate massager after lunch, face down on the bed, biting into the pillow as his hips jerk at the pressure, at the feeling of sparks, cold fire shooting down his leg. He comes untouched, whining high at the back of his throat, rutting up against nothing. He showers again before his dad gets back, has three quarters of a normal dinner together before he has to rush off and jerk it. He washes his hands, changes his pants and goes back down, talks through a few old weird cases with his dad, plays spot the mountain lion with the witness reports. 

It’s the seventeenth day, and he has no idea how he’s going to survive tomorrow, let alone the next two weeks. His dad keeps looking at him like he did when he was ill. Looked at mom the same way. Kind of loving but hopeless. Powerless. “You okay, kid?” his dad asks, wraps his hands around his mug of coffee. 

“I’m fine. I’m okay,” he says. His dad ruffles his hair, drops a kiss on top of his head, goes and grabs another box, this time from 2007. 

“Try and get some rest,” his dad says, voice gruff. Stiles nods, leaves him sitting among the boxes of files, lit up with the rest of the room in shadow, doing groundwork for reports that will never be written based on evidence that will never be believed.

*

He falls asleep humping one of his pillows, wakes up at four in the morning with his dick stuck to the fabric by his jizz. His balls are tight, dick throbbing and it doesn’t take much for him to come, biting down onto his arm to stifle his grunts as he adds a fresh load of spunk to the pillow. He drops off into an uneasy sleep, full of shadowy figures, phantoms, cut off cries and incomprehensible voices, just at the edge of his understanding. His face is wet when he wakes up, hands clawed in the sheets, covered in sweat, his tee soaked with it. His throat feels raw as he gasps for breath, but his bedroom door’s closed so he can’t have made any noise; his dad’s still asleep. “Fuck,” he mutters, scrubs a hand through his hair. He has never been so grateful not to have a boner. He sits up, takes off his sweatsoaked shirt, throws the pillow with the jizz on it in the vague direction of his laundry heap/basket, turns on the bedside light, crosses his legs and leans back against the wall. The dream is blurred already, softened at the edges. That’s the thing with most nightmares. They soften in minutes of waking up, and as Stiles looks around at his walls, the familiar pictures, get well soon notes, birthday cards, the sketch of a dog Allison said looked like him, it gets easier to breathe.

“You can come up if you like, I’m not jerking it,” he says on a hunch. Seconds later, the window slides open. “Thanks for the sandwiches,” he says. Derek nods, sits on the bed leaving the window open and Stiles holds both his hands up before he asks. “How was your day? Before you ask, mine was fine, I mainly choked the chicken, charmed the snake and spanked the monkey— I am not happy with the number of animal based euphemisms in that sentence.”

Derek smiles slightly. “That was a lie,” he says, raises his eyebrows when Stiles’s mouth drops open. “Werewolf,” he says. “Plus, you like horrifying euphemisms. I know you,” he adds. 

“Yeah, I guess you do. So c’mon, I’m living vicariously here. What did you do?” 

Derek picks at a thread in his comforter, looks down at his hands. “I had assumed you were just asking as an excuse to talk about your masturbatory habits,” he says, goes on before Stiles can protest too much. “I went for a walk. Uh, got a coffee from that new place—you know, the place that used to be a stationery shop that only seemed to sell staplers? The one that was laundering money, got shut down a few months back. Coffee’s not bad, but they overheat the milk and overpress the grounds. Went for another walk, started this book about ancient Greece using chemical weapons. Uh, worked out? I think I—yeah, I worked out, went for a run, went to bed, woke up covered in blood, woke up again running and now I’m here.”

Derek’s in sweatpants, a loose v-neck tee. Now Stiles knows what he sleeps in. “The end. Do you wanna try sleeping some more?” he asks. Derek shrugs. 

“We can try,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t mind, with the—the curse?”

Stiles looks down, meets Derek’s eyes when he can. “I think I’m pretty much beyond shame. And I think we both sleep better when we—you know, in the same bed.”

Derek looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, just tugs back the comforter, shuffles up the bed, leans up against the wall next to Stiles. Stiles kind of wants to ask if he finds this weird. Or if it feels normal, and that’s weird. Derek has left the window open. It’s probably hard for him to breathe in here. The breeze feels good, soothing. Birds are starting to sing. Stiles moves down the bed, his pillow soft and warm against his cheek. He turns it over to the cool side, hunkers down. Derek’s hand is next to his mouth. He’s stirring the hairs on his arm with every breath.

This time, the need to jerk off isn’t something that hits him like a two by four. It creeps up from his toes, sends tingles down his spine, this warm, shivery feeling. Derek makes a questioning noise, looks down at him. “You’re—are you okay?” he asks, reaches out so his hand is hovering over Stiles’s forehead, like he’s not sure if he can touch. “Can I?” he asks, and Stiles nods, so he puts his hand on Stiles’s head, strokes his hair. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can—it’s okay.” His hand’s shaking a little, but his voice is calm.

“Don’t stop—God, don’t stop touching me,” Stiles says, shameless with it. He wants Derek to kiss him, wants something more than his hand. “Please,” he says, stays on his side, toes curling as he pulls his pajama pants down under his ass, wraps his hand around his dick. “Please, Derek. Please just—I want you,” and Derek’s hand tightens, relaxes as Derek lets out a shaky breath. 

“And after?” he asks, voice ragged as Stiles starts to move his hand, slow glides up and down his dick.

“Always,” Stiles says.

He rolls over so he’s on his back, kicks off the comforter. Derek stares at his hand, his dick, as precome eases the way for each steady stroke. “You have no—no idea how good you smell. How much like sex, and want. Even before. Always smelled like you’d just had your hand on your dick. Like you’d nutted all over it, just rubbed it into your skin. Drives me wild. Makes me want to bury my face in your crotch, just stay there smelling you until you get hard again.”

“Fuck, you’re _killing_ me,” Stiles whines, reaches up, tugs at Derek’s tee to make him come closer. Derek lets Stiles pull him down, presses their foreheads together then kisses his cheek, his jaw, brushes his skin with his nose then his lips. Derek straddles him, brackets him in with his arms and legs. On the next upstroke, his hand brushes up against the front of Derek’s sweatpants. He can feel the outline of Derek’s dick, arches up a little, aching for more contact as Derek pants against his cheek. He moves his head to the side, gasps as Derek presses feverish kisses to his throat, the side of his neck. “C’mon, take off your clothes, gonna touch you everywhere, wanna do everything,” and Derek does, tugs off his tee, scrambles out of his sweatpants.

Derek’s seen Stiles’s dick before they’ve even kissed, they saved each other’s lives before they even really liked each other and everything about them is kind of backwards and too fast at the same time. Stiles wants to date him, maybe. Maybe hold hands. That’s all future stuff though. Right now, he wants to kiss him, so he lifts his head up, presses their lips together, kisses him carefully. He’s stopped jerking off, is holding his dick in a loose clasp, other hand stroking up and down Derek’s back, his smooth, warm skin without any faults or flaws. He gets to touch now. He brings his hand down lower, to the small of Derek’s back, just to the top of his ass, keeps it there as Derek makes these little jerking motions with his hips. 

He breaks the kiss, takes a few gasping breaths. “We should—if you move down a little, then we can—yeeeeah,” he says on a long groan as Derek wraps his hand around both their dicks, leans his head back open-mouthed when Derek starts jerking them both off with a slow, easy slide, the sound of it filthy in the quiet room. Derek’s grunting a little, muffling his noises against Stiles’s neck, humping up against him in this filthy undulating slide. It’s perfect, so perfect. He can feel Derek’s back muscles shift and ripple, tries to pull him closer with both hands, hooks his leg up over Derek’s calves because he wants to be touching _everywhere_ , never wants to stop. “So good, Derek,” he slurs, pets his hair. “You’re so good.” 

Derek speeds up, his hand tightening until it’s almost painful, makes these desperate noises against Stiles’s neck, kisses him between sounds. Derek comes first, shudders up against Stiles, comes on Stiles’s stomach, smears it on both of their dicks as he strokes himself through it, milking the last of his spunk out. He doesn’t stop jerking them both off, makes these beautiful gasps as he touches his spent dick and it isn’t long before Stiles comes too, fingers clawed on Derek’s back, head tipped back as he whines, spunks all over his stomach, their combined come warm and wet on his skin. 

Derek slumps down on top of him, doesn’t move. He’s a heavy, comforting weight. Stiles pets his hair idly, smiles at the ceiling as Derek starts to fall asleep. Stiles stays awake, doesn’t want this to end right away. It’s starting to get light outside, to feel a little warmer. The birds are singing, little bursts of bright sound. He can hear cars in the distance, a hum of traffic. Derek keeps making soft noises, his breaths a little uneven for a few counts, then he settles down, breathes slow and steady. Every time Stiles stops stroking his hair, he shifts a little, makes this disgruntled half-vocalization that Stiles is helpless to resist. He lets Derek’s breathing soothe him into sleep, petting his hair all the while as the world wakes up outside. 

When he wakes up, Derek’s sitting up in bed with a mug of coffee, looking at his dick like it’s a dangerous wild animal. “What? Is it—has my dick broken?”

“Stiles, you’re—aren’t you usually, like—it’s the eighteenth,” Derek says.

Stiles looks down at his dick, lying plump and soft on his thigh, pokes it gingerly with the tip of his finger. He feels…he feels fine. “I am never getting another boner,” he says. 

“Never?” Derek asks, eyes crinkling at the sides as he tries not to smile. 

“Maybe definitely not never,” Stiles says and steals his coffee. Derek lets him.

*

“Well, it would appear that you are no longer afflicted,” Deaton says at last, after an awkward round of weird questions and extended eye contact.

Scott grins, rocks back on his heels. Once they’ve both thanked Deaton, he steers Stiles to the door . “I was worried, dude. You were like a jerking it pariah.”

“Pariah?”

“New word. I’m using it five times in the next week. Broadening my vocabulary.”

Stiles walks to the side so Scott nearly knocks into one of the parked cars outside the surgery, laughs when the woman holding her Pomeranian glares at them both. “I’ve missed you,” he says as Scott mouths apologies at her. 

“I’ve missed you too. Everything’s better when you’re around, not, like—”

“Jerking it and crying?” 

Scott nods. “Yeah, that. So you and Derek? You both…I mean, you’re together now? I mean, he broke the curse. That has to mean something. Derek’s dick saves the day,” he says with a grin. “It’s so romantic.”

Stiles looks across at him, wants to deflect, but Scott looks so sincerely happy for him. “I guess it is,” he says, smiles at Scott. 

“How do you even disappoint an otter, anyway?” Scott asks. They discuss it all the way home. No boners involved. Derek’s still in his bed, though, so all that’s gonna change in about ten minutes. Scott sniffs the air, raises both his eyebrows. “ _Dude_ ,” he says, looks a little like a shocked grandma.

“There’s a werewolf in my bed, what did you expect?” he asks as he unlocks the front door. “I can’t help it. It’s like I’m cursed.”

He closes the door as Scott starts to grin, takes the stairs two at a time. He’s got spells to break. With his dick.


End file.
